Yeah, okay, she was grateful, the rabid whatever-was-worse-than-a-skunkand-heifer-rat-bastard.
Lacey whirled to face the man who was probably going to take her life in the next few minutes and swore she heard the theme from the ‘Twilight Zone’ accompanied by Rod Serling’s voice announcing, “You have entered another dimension.”
How she managed to keep her mouth from dropping open and her teeth from falling out in pure fright amazed her. She gaped at him like a fish out of water, round-eyed and a little dazed. Her entire body froze as the urge to fight ebbed away. A sense of the bizarre and unreal struck her with the force of a semi-truck.
“Oh—my—Lord!” The words escaped her as she stared at him, dumbstruck.
The man not only resembled the murderer she’d seen earlier tonight but he also looked like a refugee from ‘Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show.’
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t move. He remained in the open doorway. And waited. He stared back at her, calm, cool, his expression inscrutable, though he was breathing a little hard.
She stared back.
Fascinated.
Speechless.
Unblinking as the fish she’d compared herself to.
Her stomach knotted. Heat pooled between her thighs. Although she didn’t like it, and she doubted her sanity, the attraction was instantaneous.
Standing at least six foot two, he was big, handsome, rugged and intimidating as hell. He looked like a wild, untamed savage, as unfettered as the wind and just as unconquerable. Streaks of red and yellow paint slashed his forehead.
War paint?
Nah, surely not.
Then again, two—was that chicken feathers? dangled by his right ear. Gypsy black hair flowed long and unrestrained across his wide shoulders. The stubborn wedge of jaw looked as hard and firm as a granite mountain. Beneath slashing dark brows, eyes the color of a battleship glittered with feral alertness. A turquoise amulet rested against his brown throat.
Lacey decided he looked like an ancient warrior.
Proud.
Noble.
He feared nothing, especially not her.
“Lord-a-mercy,” she muttered beneath her breath.
He seemed to tower over the entire room, dominating her and everything else in his path. His lips tightened. The man was so not happy with her. Duh. She wasn’t exactly thrilled to run into him either.
His face, shadowed by a day’s growth of scruffy whiskers, gave him a rough and dangerous look. Sheer animal magnetism radiated from him. She’d never met a male more intensely masculine. It was clear he wasn’t a man one wanted to tangle with or one easily caught off-guard.
Behind his lazy perusal, sharp, gray eyes stared back at her. Studied her.
She gulped down a desperate breath.
He was civilized, dammit!
She knew he was civilized. Her common sense prevailed and told her this. Her eyes and her mind told her something else entirely different.
And he resembled the murderer. She must never forget that important detail.
“All right, KemoSabe, if you plan to kill me, I’m warning you, I won’t go down without a fight. Who are you and why did you kidnap me?”
A dark brow lifted. His scowl darkened. There was little doubt he wanted to throttle her. He quickly banked the flare of impatience that lit his gray eyes. “Actually,” he said smoothly, “KemoSabe isn’t a person.”
His voice washed over her, deep and masculine, dark and sinful.
“He’s not?” She knew darn well her jaw went slack again. She was back to looking like a gaping fish. “What about the Lone Ranger and his trusty Indian friend on the pinto?”
He shook his head. “It’s a word. No one is sure of the exact meaning, but it, supposedly means, ‘Trusted friend’ or ‘Long lost friend.’ I’ve read that the Navajo claim it means ‘soggy bush’ or ‘soggy shrub.’ ” He gave a half-hearted shrug. “For my part, I don’t want anyone calling me a ‘Soggy Bush’, if you get my meaning.”
He stared at her, his face stern, not a glimmer of humor revealed.
Lacey choked back a laugh. She got his meaning very well.
Soggy bush. So the man has a warped sense of humor, even if it’s delivered with deadpan stoicism. Go figure.
But this wasn’t a laughing matter.
Not from her point of view.
Still, she had her own brand of wicked humor. Or maybe she was just feeling a little hysterical and didn’t have any better sense at the moment than to poke a sleeping rattler.
“So-o, what’s with the costume?”
Pushy. Why did she always have to be so pushy? It had to be the journalist in her, because she simply couldn’t leave things alone. So let him take offense. Did she give a rat’s ass? “I know it’s not Halloween. Must be a big pow-wow or meeting of the big, bad warriors?”
“Yes.”
“A man of many words.” She cocked her head and waited for a response.
A sable brow lifted, but he remained stubbornly silent. He slid his gaze up and down her in a long, slow thorough inspection.
Lacey huffed and folded her arms beneath her breasts. His silence made her nerves jitter. She felt as twitchy as a bug on a hot rock. He stood there, tall and solemn as a giant oak tree, staring down his nose at her. There was something about him, something that was sinfully wild and untamed. Something lethal. This was one badass man. Tangling with him in a fight or even allowing him to touch her heart was bound to get her hurt.
Suddenly all she wanted was to flee, and he blocked her avenue of escape.
How could she feel the slightest spark of interest in this man? But she did. Damn. Why did he have to be the most attractive male specimen she’d ever seen? Disturbed by the knowledge she could go for him in a big way, Lacey lowered her gaze. Big mistake. Tight denim, softened by numerous washings, clung to his splendid thighs like bark on a tree. The button-fly shamelessly cupped an impressive bulge that left a woman in little doubt the man had a whopper.
Heat warmed her face. She forced her eyes up to his chest and struggled valiantly to keep from lowering her gaze once again.
Ah, hell, fuck it! She wasn’t stupid.
She dropped her gaze, and allowed it to linger with lip-smacking appreciation on the masculine package behind the row of steel buttons, until she heard him clear his throat. Her gaze shot to his face where she detected a hint of amusement glittering in his smoke-colored eyes.
She coughed. “Well—er, I always say, if you got it, flaunt it.”
“I’m sure I haven’t a clue as to what you’re talking about.”
“And I’m Mother Theresa.”
His lips twitched. “I doubt that. I doubt there’s one thing saintly about you.”
Lacey slid her gaze over him once again. One thing was certain—the man could tempt a saint into sinning. The smug sonofabitch knew he was hung like a mule and was damn proud of it. He knew those soft jeans lovingly cupped his sex. Yeah, baby!
Undaunted, she continued her blatant examination of him. She told herself she ought to feel ashamed. She sighed. She mentally shrugged. A lady had to do what a lady had to do. Sure, it was a dirty job, but she felt she really needed to complete her inspection of him, just to be on the safe side. In case—oh yeah—in case she had to describe him to the FBI or something.
Lacey eyed the five-pointed star pinned to his short-sleeved khaki shirt. Above it rested a narrow brass nameplate engraved with the faded letters, Sheriff D. Blackstone, below that, Rimrock County, Montana.
Cinched at his lean waist, a worn leather gun belt hugged his middle. A .38 caliber pistol rested snugly in the black holster draped at his hip. She cocked a brow and filled her voice with Mae West speculation. “You ever allow a lady to play with your. . . gun?”
“Only when it’s primed and ready to fire,” he shot back.
She felt heat sweep up her cheeks and into her scalp. Well, she’d certainly asked for that. The sneaky culprit was quick with his sharp answer
s. He had a sense of the risqué she couldn’t help but appreciate; in spite of the odds he was probably going to kill her.
So she had to ask herself if she was totally insane, figured she was, or she wouldn’t be flirting with the demon killer from hell. She returned her gaze to his crotch and knew she was totally insane for staring.
“Who are you?” he asked and shifted his weight to the other hip.
His face hadn’t lost any of its severity. If anything, he looked sterner. More distant.
Inside, Lacey cringed. A lawman.
Of course, he’s a lawman. Duh. He said he was already and the badge only reinforced his word. Girl, you gotta get your head screwed on straight or you’re dead.
Even without his having said it, the star pinned on his broad chest clearly declared his profession to all and sundry. The gun snuggled on his hip backed up his silent authority.
Hadn’t the woman been shot?
Yes. She’d definitely heard a gunshot.
And this man packed a gun. She’d give her eyeteeth to know if it had recently been fired.
“Done any target practicing lately, Sheriff?”
Lacey stifled a moan. What the hell was she doing? She wasn’t an investigative reporter. She certainly didn’t need to poke at a hornet’s nest. But wasn’t it damned convenient for him to have a revolver so close and handy?
“I took a few potshots at a nosy critter earlier this evening. Why?” Lacey swallowed hard. “Potshots?”
“Yeah, something that was where it had no business being and moved when it shouldn’t have.”
Now she knew how a mouse felt trapped in a corner by a rattler. Her heart pounded. Morbid fascination filled her until she felt as though she bubbled over with it. It was just her rotten luck she’d ran straight into the very last person she desired to run into—someone from the local Sheriff’s Office. She should have been more careful, more observant. That would cost her and was a bigger mistake than sneaking peeks at his crotch.
No doubt about it, she was in trouble here, big trouble. There was no one she could turn to or trust. How to escape was something she would have to figure out on her own, preferably when he didn’t have a loaded gun within reach.
She took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and forced herself to remain calm. Later. Later, she would figure out a way to escape. Her attention drifted to the softly fringed, knee-high moccasins that hugged the calves of his powerful legs. She licked her dry lips.
“Hell, deny it all you want—you look like a KemoSabe to me.”
She sure as hell didn’t mean a ‘soggy bush’ either. It sounded, even to her own ears, as if she’d just discovered the national treasure. Maybe she had. The man was mouth-watering gorgeous.
He shook his head and stepped toward her.
Lacey backed up. Gorgeous or not, she didn’t trust him. He’d manhandled her. She wouldn’t put up with that from anyone.
He hesitated, stepped back, and planted himself solidly right back between her and the door.
Lawman? Huh.
The faint shadow of whiskers that blackened his obstinate jaw made this man look more like an outlaw on a wanted poster. Tingles raced down her spine. Whether from excitement or fear, she wasn’t certain. Perhaps a little bit of both. How did one define tingles? There was just something about a bad ass. . .
“You’re a County Sheriff.”
“Yeah, but it’s a small county, sweetheart.” His lips curved, whether with a smile or displeasure, she wasn’t sure. He dragged his gaze over her and frowned. “You’re trembling. What are you so frightened about?”
What was she so frightened about?
Lacey barely stopped herself from snorting. Was the man as crazy as the insane critters he’d called her?
He seemed to read her mind. He rubbed a hand down his jaw and across his mouth.
“If you’d have just stopped fighting me in the alley like a maddened steer high on loco weed, there wouldn’t have been a problem. I don’t make a habit of going easy on someone I suspect of criminal activity.” He shrugged. “But now that we’ve established what I am, let’s discuss who you are. What’s your name?”
Panic whipped through her. He wanted to know her name. The thought of giving him the information he wanted left her feeling raw, exposed and in immediate peril. Obviously he knew how she felt because he watched her with the feral eyes of a rogue wolf.
Oh yeah, definitely a bad ass.
She damned the terror two-stepping across her stomach. Cursed the attraction she felt for this man she suspected of murder. Yep. She was a sick individual.
Don’t tell him anything. The silent warning flashed in her mind like streaks of greased lightning.
Oh, but she would have to tell him her name. What choice did she have? There was no logical way around it. She couldn’t lie. Anyway, telling lies wasn’t something she did very well. She had an innate sense of honesty that forced her to blurt out whatever was on her mind and damn the consequences. If she started telling lies, she’d end up confused.
Rule number one: Don’t get caught in your own sticky web.
A genteel lady should never be confused or trapped in a web of her own making. That was important. Besides, it was possible he already knew her name and for some perverted reason played a nasty little game with her, a deadly, dangerous game.
The sick fiend.
Lacey glanced about the tiny office. She had to give herself time to calm down, get her thoughts in order, and rein in this feeling of being overwhelmed and out of control. She blinked and focused her attention on the countless wanted posters thumb-tacked to a cork bulletin board on the wall.
Hanging beneath the wanted posters were at least five black and white snaps of missing women. Kimberly Smith, eighteen, Jackie Hart, twenty-two, Mona Martin, twenty-eight, Debbie White, thirty, and Rachel Karr, twenty-one, all missing for different periods of time and from different cities across the western half of the United States, but all within the past two years. A newspaper clipping tacked to the board caught her attention: Local Woman Missing.
Below it, another clipping: Vandalism in the area on the rise. Hmm. It would seem the sheriff had a problem or two going on in his town. She wished there was a picture of the local missing woman, but a quick check
of the date revealed the woman had gone astray two weeks earlier. Lacey doubted if she was in anyway connected to the woman she saw die tonight. She wondered vaguely what had become of all those women. Maybe like her, they’d been kidnapped by a mean-eyed sheriff. Poor women. No telling what had became of them.
She shifted her gaze from the posters. A massive desk stood near the right side of the wall. It sagged beneath a mountain of papers piled on top of it. Jammed together on one end of the desk—and competing for equal space—stood a phone, fax machine, and a single, gooseneck lamp. An outdated computer rested on another table to the left of the desk.
In a corner a four-drawer filing cabinet tilted to one side, apparently as overburdened as the desk. A thirsty plant drooped lifelessly in a bright red flowerpot on top of it. Crammed behind the big desk, a had-seen-better-days, black leather chair waited on rollers. In front of the desk, a ladder-back chair stood like a sentinel on guard duty, waited for women like her to be seated and interrogated by Mr. Sexy.
Clearly, the sheriff did not waste the taxpayer’s dollar on decorating his office.
Her eyes zeroed in on a neat row of rifles sealed behind the glass doors of a locked gun cabinet. It stared back at her from the opposite side of the room.
An opportunity to escape? Surely. Because locked doors wouldn’t keep her from breaking the glass and taking a rifle if she needed it.
And she would definitely need it if she managed to escape.
She switched her gaze at the sound of his soft snort.
“Go ahead, break the glass. The rifles are all chained together and in turn, locked to an iron link in the wall behind the gun cabinet. You couldn’t get one out no matter how hard you tried.”
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She flipped him the bird.
He arched a silken brow. “Anytime you’re ready, little cat.”
“That’ll be the day.”
“I’ll just wait right here.”
Lacey smothered a snicker. She’d never met a man who could stay one step ahead of her mind. Yet, here stood a man who barely knew her, who could do exactly that. He was rock steady and as solid as Stone Mountain.
Lacey steamed. The beast. How could he read her so easily? She shrugged and returned her attention to the cluttered office.
In The Arms Of Danger Page 3